Plot Twist
by previouslyjade
Summary: Sixth year. Draco Malfoy is trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet at Hogwarts. Little does he know of the existence of a third Cabinet, concealed in the cellar of Frodo's old house at Crickhollow. And when he falls into the Hogwarts Cabinet and reemerges in Middle Earth to the astonishment of Merry and Pippin, who are staying at Crickhollow, the fun is about to begin. AU
1. Draco's Error

**Chapter 1. Draco's Error**

 _Disclaimer: Neither the wonderful Wizarding world, nor Middle Earth, nor the characters thereof, belong to me._

 _Hey! So I thought I'd try writing a crossover for the first time, though I am aware that I still have two other stories that are very much unfinished. I'm not abandoning either 'Vois Sur Ton Chemin' or 'Out of the Woods', I promise! I've just been busy (See author's profile) and thought I'd post this to get back into the swing of writing._

 _Hope you enjoy!_

 _AND ONE MORE THING, just in case this is an issue: Potential trigger warning._

* * *

Draco Malfoy was losing his swagger.

Despite his position as a prefect, the Slytherin sixth-year no longer walked so insolently through the corridors of Hogwarts. He was increasingly seen without his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, who were often nowhere to be found. Sometimes, when he knew the corridor was deserted, the haughty chin drooped a little, and his grey eyes, always wary, became fearful.

The truth was that Draco Malfoy was scared. Far from giving him confidence, the Dark Mark on his forearm had become like a heavy weight pressing down on his peace of mind. He could never forget the pain as it was burned into his pale skin, or Voldemort's red eyes looking into his as he claimed the boy as his own.

Draco had no illusions as to what this meant. As a naïve fifth-year, he had prided himself on his indifference and disdain towards the Mudblood population. But the Christmas holidays had been the worst few weeks of his life. He had already lost count of how many Muggles he had been forced to torture. And if he couldn't even torture a few… _animals…_ then how was he supposed to cast the Killing Curse on the greatest wizard he would ever know?

Draco was worried that the strain he was under was showing in his face. The face that stared back at him out of the mirror in the mornings was looking thinner and paler than ever. _Nervy._ The adjective sprang to mind. Lately, he'd started imagining noises that weren't there. Once, he could have sworn he'd seen a pair of tennis-ball-shaped eyes gazing at him from the corner of his eye, but when he spun round, they were gone.

It was after that shock that he first encountered Moaning Myrtle in the boys' bathroom on the sixth floor.

Leaning his forehead against the grimy mirror, he began to cry in hysterical, shaken sobs that shed no tears and could have been mistaken for laughter. At first his hands rested on each side of the cracked sink, but he needed to lash out at something, even himself, so he recklessly turned on the hot water tap and shoved his hands under it.

In a few moments, however, he pulled his hands back with a small yelp of pain. He stared at them, noticing that the normally pale skin was now red.

"So there we are," he said aloud, with a shaken little laugh. "I can't even hold my hands under boiling water for more than a few seconds, and I'm supposed to kill – "

He stifled the thought before it could go any further. He was afraid that even in this deserted place someone might find him out. This was what was slowly driving him mad – the need to watch every thought, every word, every action.

"Kill who?"

The owner of the voice had floated out of a nearby cubicle and paused, suspended in mid-air, eyeing him curiously. It was a short, squat female ghost with a pointed face and small eyes half-hidden behind thick, pearly spectacles. Her pale, lank hair had been gathered into two long pigtails that streamed over her shoulders. Draco had heard about Moaning Myrtle, the gloomy ghost of a Hogwarts student who haunted the girls' bathroom on the first floor. But he had never actually seen her in person.

"Kill _who?"_ the ghost insisted petulantly.

"Nothing…no-one," muttered Draco, turning away and cowering over the sink. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, so he focused on trying to make them stay still. After a while, he felt something cold and insubstantial brush his cheek, and gave a start.

"Don't be afraid of poor Myrtle," crooned the girl, her transparent face very close to Draco's own. "She might be able to help you."

"Help me!" Draco laughed. "No-one can help me – no-one – he says I have to do it all myself."

"And who is 'he'?" The hoarse, sibilant whisper was oddly soothing to Draco. "What could you possibly be afraid of, with your shining silver hair and that noble jawline? And so perfectly lovely to poor Myrtle – quite unlike those _inconsiderate_ mortals who…who laugh at poor, forsaken, _miserable_ Myrtle!" Her voice had risen to a shriek, and Draco saw that she was crying insubstantial, pearly tears. He watched, speechless, as, with one more shrieking sob, she dived headfirst into the nearest toilet and vanished with a splash.

"No, wait, come back!" called Draco. "I need – " He finished the sentence in his mind. _I need to tell someone, or else I'll go mad._

"Yes?" Myrtle poked her head cautiously out of the toilet. "You were talking to me?"

"I have to tell someone," said Draco rather desperately. "Promise me you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you. It could get me killed."

"Killed…oooh, how exciting! And then we could be together for always in my bathroom…." With an obvious effort, Myrtle pulled herself back to reality. "How lucky that you chose to confide in me! I will take your secret to…to the grave! I will never betray you!"

"It's the Dark Lord," said Draco. He had slumped to the floor with his head in his hands. "My father's in prison, and…and I don't give a damn about my father, but I can't…. The Dark Lord took me on as a replacement. He said that if I proved myself…if I did everything he told me to do…then…we wouldn't be completely disgraced. He's made me torture so many Mudbloods…at the Death Eater meetings…over Christmas…their blood on my hands. But it doesn't look like mud. It's as red…as anyone else's. And then…he told me to kill…."

Draco's head jerked up, and he stared at Myrtle with eyes wide and dark with horror. "I can't even tell you," he said. "I can't tell anyone…who I'm supposed to kill."

He got to his feet and stumbled blindly out of the bathroom. "Maybe I'll come and talk to you again, Myrtle," he called over his shoulder; and added, more softly, "if I'm still alive."

* * *

One night the following week, Draco was summoned to a Death Eater meeting. Though it was past midnight, he was awake when the summons came. These nights he would lie awake, sometimes until dawn, staring at the dormitory ceiling and letting all the dark thoughts that he suppressed during the day rise to the surface.

He rose silently. These days he didn't bother to undress, but slept in his uniform. He felt too unguarded and unsafe in his pyjamas, and so he never used them anymore, preferring instead to be ready for any summons that might come.

Crabbe and Goyle were snoring loudly beside him. They slept like boulders, so Draco was not overly concerned about waking them. Zabini, Nott and Pike were another matter. Blaise in particular slept lightly, and never snored, so that Draco could never be sure if he was quite asleep. But Draco was light and quick on his feet from long practice as a Seeker. He silently donned his boots and, wrapping his cloak about him, started across the dormitory floor, wand in hand.

He was just passing Zabini's bed when his toe caught on a pile of books on the floor, and he stumbled, treading on a loose floorboard. It creaked, and, to his horror, Zabini stirred and sat up. " _Draco_ …" he mumbled sleepily, the dim moonlight shining onto the other boy's hair showing all too clearly who it was. "Whazzamatter?"

Draco's heart clenched in panic, and all sensible thought escaped him. Instead of answering, he pointed his wand at Zabini. " _Somnus."_

" _What?_ Malfoy, are you daft? What's going on?" Blaise's voice rose. The Sleep Charm had evidently not worked; they were notoriously difficult to execute. What was more, Draco realised, if not silenced, Zabini was likely to wake the entire dormitory. "I'm…I'm just going to the bathroom." His voice was strained. He had to get to Professor Snape's office so the two of them could go together. The Dark Lord would be getting impatient – and so would Severus.

"Like hell you are. It doesn't explain why you were pointing your wand at me just now."

"There was…a spider on the wall behind your bed."

"It's not there now."

"That's because I got rid of it, you idiot. It was about to crawl on you."

They eyed each other warily in the moonlight. To their left, a quick glance showed that Nott and Pike were beginning to stir.

"You're a Death Eater," said Zabini with absolute certainty. "And there's a meeting tonight. I already knew that from my father. Poor Draco Malfoy, the Dark Lord's youngest, lowliest servant, because someone's father was stupid enough to get himself thrown into prison…."

So they knew. Knew, too, what vile deeds he had been ordered to perform as Voldemort's lowliest henchman. They probably knew (and this thought was too awful to bear) of the times he had been so sickened by the carnage he was inflicting that he had been unable to cast the Cruciatus, and had been himself subjected to it as a result. He hated that their fathers had probably seen him, Lucius Malfoy's son, screaming and writhing on the ground like a common Muggle.

He turned viciously back to face Zabini. "Don't call my father stupid!" he hissed. "You'll never understand what sacrifices he has made to serve the Dark Lord! And I may be the Dark Lord's lowliest servant, but I'm already doing the his work, and doing it ten times better than you could, Blaise Zabini! I'm _proud_ of being a Death Eater, Zabini, and if you can't understand that, then go and live with the Mudbloods!"

He stepped, head high, to the door, and scorning secrecy, slammed it shut behind him.

Snape was waiting impatiently for him in his office.

"What took you so long?" he demanded, black eyes boring into his godson. Draco looked down and didn't answer.

"Idiot boy! The Dark Lord may punish us severely for being late. As his servant you must be constantly at the ready, you must learn this, Draco! You have been spoilt…."

"They know." Draco's voice was soft, despairing.

"Who?" Snape couldn't quite keep the worry out of his voice. "Who know? Draco, tell me."

"Nott and Zabini. They know I'm a Death Eater. They know what I'm doing, where I'm going…. And they all hate me now."

They were now walking at a brisk pace towards the place where the anti-apparition wards around Hogwarts ceased to operate. "Of course they know, you fool," Severus snapped. "And as for them hating you, do you dare to tell me that you have become weak enough to care? Draco, you are Lucius Malfoy's son. You cannot afford to feel or show any weakness, or you will not survive this. Come, take my hand."

Draco pulled back sharply. "I can Apparate alone!"

Snape glared at him. "I am sure you are perfectly able to do so, Mr Malfoy; but to avoid unwanted accidents that could make us even later, would you please take my hand?"

The Potions master's steely black eyes and commanding frown were not to be argued with, and Draco did.

* * *

Later that night, emotionally exhausted and aching all over, his silver hair soiled and matted with blood and dust, Draco staggered back up the stairs to his dormitory. This time, no one stirred as he entered. All was silent.

Tomorrow, he thought, another tragedy would be reported in the Muggle newspapers, the neighbourhood watch would double, and a number of wizarding families in rural England would also be among the bereaved. And he, Draco Malfoy, would be in the Room of Requirement, working on the Vanishing Cabinet. Voldemort had looked down at him, sprawled there at his feet, with unutterable disdain. He had promised Draco a gruesome death, from which only the killing of Dumbledore could save him. Then he had swept his cloak around him and turned away, leaving Draco lying there in the dirt, shaking uncontrollably and unable to rise. Dimly he had heard the jeers from the circle of Death Eaters, before Snape had stepped forward and pulled him roughly to his feet. He had looked desperately in his professor's eyes for some emotional foothold, but they were expressionless as black obsidian. Draco turned away.

As always, the morning after a Death Eater meeting, Draco felt as if the blood hadn't washed off properly. He felt as if the people who stared at him in the corridors could see it on his hands and on his forehead. Twice that day he passed Katie Bell in the corridor. Although he himself had never touched her, and she had no way of knowing of his guilt, he felt that she looked at him accusingly.

He did not feel like facing everyone in the Great Hall for lunch, but instead went straight to the Room of Requirement. The sight of the Vanishing Cabinet, still far from complete, made his heart sink with despair. It was an impossible task, and Voldemort had meant him to fail. He couldn't fail…couldn't endure the Cruciatus again. They had taught him, too, other Dark curses – _Digitum Sectareo_ , which severed the fingers from the hand, leaving a bare stump behind; _Exta Extracorpus_ , whereby the victim was disembowelled alive; _Dextram Pulvero_ , which turned your right hand instantly to dust. All these were irreversible. All these might soon be used on him.

He had been kneeling at the open door of the Cabinet, lost in thought, when he heard a loud scuffling noise, and with a start of horror he thought that someone had managed to break into the Room. Panicking, he tried to scramble to his feet, but some malicious force must have been at work – instead, he fell headfirst into the Cabinet, which suddenly had no floor or walls but had become one giant, dark abyss.

His last thought was to curse himself for what a bloody idiot he'd been.

* * *

 _So what did you think? I hope this chapter wasn't too slow! Please leave a review, whether to praise, critique or both - I always appreciate feedback. Next update: I have no idea! It mightn't be for a while, but I am definitely continuing this! Hope you have a very happy Christmas and New Year if I don't update before then._

 _Oh, and one more thing - This will be mainly book verse as I am more familiar with the books of both series. (Haven't even watched all the HP movies yet!)_


	2. Many Misunderstandings

Chapter 2. Many Misunderstandings

 _Disclaimer: Neither the wonderful Wizarding World, nor Middle Earth, nor the characters thereof, belong to me._

 _A/N. Greetings all, I'm back! Hope you had a great Christmas and New Year - I know I did.  
I was so thrilled and surprised by the interest in this story! Thank you everyone who favourited and followed, and here are some review replies.  
Shout out to TimC34, AutumnLeaves03, thepantsaredead, JazaChan, A-Fighterlady, JJAndrews, and Guest for your lovely words.  
KishuMai - Thanks for making me laugh more than I had in about four days xD  
ThatOneGirlNoOneNotices - Sorry to break it to you, I did notice you, or at least your review :P  
dreamflower02 - Couldn't agree more about Merry and Pippin! I definitely intend to develop their characters in this story, they are two of my absolute faves. So please keep telling me what you think and point it out if they're getting a bit OOC! Also re. Draco, it's something I hadn't initially considered, to be honest, but that I did consider in writing this chapter. Hope you like :)_

* * *

"Merry! Merry? Oh, confound it, where's a Brandybuck when you need them? _Merry!"_

The hobbit in question gave a long-suffering sigh and laid aside his pipe as his friend's voice came floating up from the cellar. The two companions had just returned from a visit to King Elessar of Gondor (familiarly known as Strider) and had decided to have a nice quiet holiday at Crickhollow on the way back.

Of course, with Pippin around, the word "holiday" suggested much rescuing of his cousin from scrapes, as well as the usual beer, mushrooms, hot baths, books and country strolls.

"All right, I'm coming!" he shouted back. "What is it this time? We've already had a lost pipe, vandalised jam, squashed mushrooms, a rampaging pigeon, and broken chairs," he added, descending the ladder with some caution as it creaked ominously. "What else could possibly go wrong?"

"The beer we stored in that cabinet." Pippin's expression was a ludicrous combination of perplexity and wrath. "It's gone, just like the pipe."

Merry laughed. "Are you sure you didn't mistake it for water the last time you got thirsty in the night?"

Pippin looked aggrieved. "Do you think I'd still be able to stand up if I had? It was a lot of beer, Cousin, and of the very best brew, too – some of the 1420 malt. And then it just _vanishes_ overnight…."

" _All_ of it?"

"If you don't believe me, you can see for yourself, Cousin," Pippin retorted, pulling open the door of the cabinet. Merry looked, and gave a low whistle. "You're right. Seven bottles of beer, vanished into thin air. Is that an _apple_ on the floor there?" He reached in and pulled it out – it was, indeed, a rosy-cheeked apple, slightly bruised.

"Well, that _is_ odd," said Pippin mischievously. "You don't suppose there's a malevolent Wizard around who turns things into apples to spite their owners? It sounds like something Lobelia – but I shouldn't speak ill of her. She turned out all right in the end."

Merry's face had turned pensive. "I miss him, you know."

"Frodo, you mean? I think we all do, and none so much as Sam. For that matter, I miss the old hobbit too. He told the most wonderful stories."

"And now he's part of a story himself. Strange, how things work out."

"Do you think he's still alive?" Pippin said suddenly. "Mr Bilbo, I mean."

Merry turned to stare out of the window at the green grass and the spring daisies for a long moment before he answered, the afternoon light catching his features and turning hair to gold, eyes to amethyst. At last he said,

"I think he was alive, Pippin, until very recently – alive and happy, free from care or pain. But there is something in my heart that tells me he has passed on at last, to a land even more distant than that whither he sailed. It has made me sad of late."

As he was speaking, Merry had felt the prickle of tears in his eyes, unexpected but not unwelcome. Now he felt, rather than saw, the pressure of Pippin's hand on his shoulder, and a sympathetic face very close to his own. The cousins embraced and shared a moment of mourning for the old hobbit whom they had loved and respected so dearly, and who had at last passed beyond all recall.

* * *

The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson and daffodil-yellow when Pippin lifted his damp face from Merry's shoulder and chuckled.

"The day grows old, Merry lad, and we are still without our beer. Are you sure _you_ didn't feel a sudden thirst in the night and drain it dry?"

"Not I. But I've been thinking for a while now that there's something very odd about this cabinet. For one thing, I don't remember it ever being here when first I purchased the house for Frodo. Then when we paid our first visit here after the war, here it was, sitting the cellar as if it had been there all along. Maybe I should have been more suspicious, but I'd had enough of suspicious. Told myself it must be my memory that was bad, but now I'm not so sure."

"I'll bet you my best pipe it was planted here by Saruman," said Pippin darkly. "His last act of spite on us for uncovering his devilry, not to mention expelling him from Orthanc."

"My dear hobbit, don't be absurd!" said Merry. "At least, I'd expect rather more from Saruman than a malicious cabinet that turns everything into apples – whoa – hold your ponies, I didn't say anything against _you_ , all right?"

This surprising statement was said to the cabinet, from the bowels of which was suddenly heard a loud banging and a muffled shout. The two hobbits looked wide-eyed at each other.

"Hallo!" shouted Pippin. "Are you all right down – "

" – there?" he finished in a much smaller voice, for with alarming suddenness, the cabinet gave an almighty bump and lurch, and out tumbled a slight figure, unmistakeably of the stature of a Man or Elf. Pippin was reminded of their old friend Legolas Greenleaf, prince of Mirkwood, were he to be forcibly subjected to a haircut.

'Legolas', after lying stunned for a moment, now occupied himself by struggling frantically to rise, a feat which seemed to be complicated by the fact that he was abominably dizzy and unable to tell which way was up. Merry kindly stepped forward to assist him, but the Man waved aside his hand in groggy irritation, rose abruptly to his feet, and immediately banged his head on the low ceiling. He sat down again with a bump.

Pippin, who had been stifling a rather inconsiderate mirth at their guest's struggles, now collected himself enough to bow politely. "Peregrin Took at your service."

The Man's youthful features, initially terrified, now showed only suspicion. "Are you a new kind of house-elf, or did you drink a Shrinking Potion? And I'd appreciate it if you'd kindly explain where I am and whose side you're on."

Pippin was affronted. "We're not elves, and even if we were, you've no right to say the word as if it were an insult. And I'll have you know that we are considered of quite lofty stature among our kin, though I will pardon your ignorance, being as it seems a Man unlearned in the lore of Middle Earth. Know then, stranger, that we are Hobbits, and have attempted to show you courtesy, unable as you seem to recognise it as such."

"Well, I beg your humble pardon," said Draco with heavy sarcasm. "But if you don't tell me whose side you're on within ten seconds I'll – "

He had been about to say _I'll turn you both into pink spotted armchairs_ , but realised, with a horrible, cold, sinking feeling, that his wand was still back in the Room of Requirement. He was no Hermione Granger, with her effortless command of wandless magic.

" – Faint?" offered Pippin helpfully. Merry looked reprovingly at his cousin. "Remember your manners, Pip, it isn't proper to taunt a guest. But neither is it proper to threaten your hosts," he added pointedly. "This is a country at peace, not a land at war, though things of menace still lurk, I have no doubt, in its ditches. My cousin here is a subject of Gondor and in the service of the King Elessar, while my own allegiance is bound in part to Éomer, king of Rohan – so it may be that if you tell us of what you are afraid, we can help you. But first come, wash the sweat from your face, sit down and smoke a pipe with us, and we can proceed with courtesy. You will find that Peregrin and I have our own questions ready to be asked of you."

The attempt on Merry's part to put him at his ease was lost on the Man, whose silvery eyes narrowed defensively.

"Did Dumbledore put you up to this?" he spat. "Look, I don't know who or what in the name of Merlin's fluffy feet you are, or what he bribed you with to put on furry brown prosthetics and shrink yourselves to look _cute_ and _harmless_ , because apparently I'm an insecure child who feels threatened by normal-sized people, but it's not working, okay? Now drop the act, and the feet, and all that stupid talk about courtesy – oh, and don't you know that smoking gives you cancer? – and go and tell the old codger that I'm not going to give him whatever-it-is he wants. Oh, and you should probably ask him to reverse that shrinking spell, though he's probably decided he likes you as you are and wants to keep you that way."

Merry and Pippin, absolutely flabbergasted, had listened to the whole of this tirade without summoning the wits to interrupt. When their guest finally paused for breath, there was an awkward silence, at last broken by Merry saying weakly,

"I think there might have been a misunderstanding, don't you? And if you'd rather not have a pipe, how about some tea?"

* * *

Two rather angst-ridden hours later (at least on Draco's part), Merry and Pippin had finally managed to convince the strange Man that he was safe, at least for the present, and that they had never heard of anyone named Dumbledore, or You-Know-Who, or even Lucius Malfoy. He had also, with much reluctance, divulged his name and age – Draco Malfoy, 16 – and the fact that he was a Wizard, though Merry and Pippin refused to believe him on the grounds that there were only three in Middle Earth (now that Gandalf and Saruman were both gone) and all of them much older than sixteen. He kept insisting that he _could_ do magic, only he'd left his wand back where he came from, in a strange room called the Room of Requirement, which he refused to explain. (Pippin thought it sounded like something his grandmother would have used when one of the little Tooks was in trouble.) Altogether, he seemed a little mad, but the Hobbits were not disposed to like him the less for that, and even tolerated his rudeness with remarkable good humour.

Though initially they had high hopes of getting their visitor to explain about the Cabinet, he seemed as confused as they were, not to mention extremely disinclined to reveal anything of what he _did_ know. But after a while he displayed a considerable eagerness to return to the cellar to see it again. To this the Hobbits readily obliged, having lost none of the curiosity innate to their clans that had led them on their perilous quest nigh on ten years before.

Pippin, candle in hand (it was by now quite dark) led the way. He yanked open the door and stuck his head in, but could see nothing stranger than the wooden interior of a rather expensive cabinet. Then, to the horror of both Draco and Merry, he stepped inside completely.

A moment later, the cellar resounded to Pippin's muffled screech of surprise, Merry's belated shout of, "No, no, don't be an ass!" and Draco's exclamation of annoyance, all simultaneously.

"What did he do that for?" demanded Draco after a moment. Merry groaned. "You wouldn't be asking that if you knew Pippin. But I really thought he might have learned better after everything we went through with the war, and especially the Palantír. Well, I'd better go after him. Feel free to stay and make use of our food and the beds and everything else, just don't damage anything, and try not to mortally affront any guests that may come by. Farewell!"

He stepped into the Cabinet and vanished before Draco could say a word to stop him.

Draco waited in the cellar for a few minutes, trying to figure out what to do next. Then there was a soft thump, the door of the Cabinet flew open and, to his complete surprise, his wand skittered across the floor. His new acquaintances must have emerged out of the Hogwarts Cabinet, then.

Draco was surprised to find himself hoping they were safe. He wasn't supposed to care about anyone who wasn't a Pureblood, let alone not even human. But there was something about these Hobbits that was oddly endearing – no, that wasn't right. It was more that they had somehow inspired his respect. And respect, for Draco, wasn't something he gave away lightly…to anyone.

Maybe that was why his master's injunction to kill the headmaster had wrenched so deeply at everything he'd built his world on. Because with Dumbledore gone, the number of people to whom he was willing to give that respect would be reduced to three – his parents, and his godfather and Professor, Severus Snape.

With an effort, he pushed aside the fear and self-loathing that stretched out dark arms to claim him. Somehow, this was easier to do in the safe, cosy little cellar, so completely separate from his real life. Though he knew that he should get back to the Room of Requirement as quickly as possible, he felt less and less inclination to actually do so, as easy as it would be.

He needed a break – had needed one for a while. The exhaustion in his bones, brought to his attention by the panic of falling through the cabinet and emerging in a completely unfamiliar location, had, he realised, been there since the summer. It was so long since he'd actually been able to relax….

Suddenly barely able to keep his eyes open, he scaled the ladder and staggered groggily through the house till he found one of the bedrooms. He didn't even bother to pull off his shoes but sank onto the bed nearest the door. It was small, so that he had to lie curled up on his side, but gloriously soft. He was asleep almost instantly.

* * *

 _A/N. So, what did you think? Please tell me your thoughts in a review, if you have time!_

 _Just a clarification - As I said earlier, this is book verse not movie verse. In the movie, Draco tests whether the Vanishing Cabinet is working by throwing in objects that come back broken/dead (rough summary here), but in the book it doesn't specify: thus, his assumption that he is failing to fix the Cabinet is due in fact to the objects he throws in coming out of the Middle Earth Cabinet not the Borgin and Burkes one. In other words, the Cabinet, at this point in time, is working, though it must have been damaged during fifth year (? Too lazy to look this up) when Montague got stuck in it._

 _That's all from me for now - have a good week! :) The next update may be awhile in coming, sorry - I doubt it'll happen within a week, anyway, or even a month :(_


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